Sitting Out
by DUNOTS
Summary: Spike hasn't been himself since coming to W&H... or maybe he has. S5 character Drabble.
1. Sun

Sitting Out  
  
One: Sun  
  
"So, I've been meaning to ask you," she noted, not even bothering to turn around and face him, "Do you really know Wes from before?"  
  
Spike smiled to himself for a second, but made sure to let it pass. "Well... I could say no, but that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?"  
  
Winifred turned around as she rolled her eyes. Of course, by the way she was smiling he could see he had her. "If only I could beleive that no of yours. The only way I'll ever get a straight answer is out of Wesley."  
  
"Hey," Spike smirked as he pseudo-sat on her desk, clutching his arms around himself out of habit, "You should know I'm as straight as the next..."  
  
She gave him a look as she set down whatever it was she was tinkering with.  
  
"As long as the next isn't Lorne..." he amended, and then with a naughty grin, "or Angel."  
  
Fred eyed him seriously for a moment and then sat down next to him, a question brimming at her lips. "What is it with you two, anyway? I mean, I guess I should do my homework, but I'd rather build something that could help humanity than read up on you guys' groty family tree."  
  
"With you so far," he drawled, "Dont much care for the past, lately."  
  
She cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"The past is where the bad memories stay," he explained simply.  
  
The eyebrow was still loaded.  
  
"Fine," he sighed, "I guess cryptic, tortured guy is already covered around these parts. I'll just take my drama-queen tiara and head off, then."  
  
As he started to turn to leave, she headed him off with one word.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well, don't wanna be in your hair..."  
  
"No," she reiterated, and he almost turned to look at her, but he knew that was what she wanted, "I mean, why do you do this? Hide behind the bad boy."  
  
"Alright, fine," he sighed, sitting back down, "I give. I'll tell you about me and Peaches. But that's all you get."  
  
She sat back a bit, and it was clear she accepted that. "Wait, Peaches?"  
  
Spike smiled, a genuine one this time. "Yeah, it's my personal pet name for that mountain of glare that cuts your checks. He really hates it."  
  
Fred sort of giggled. It remin-  
  
He squinted his eyes almost imperceptably and she took that as a cue to speak. "Well, I'll just have to store that under useless but funny."  
  
"It's not useless if you wanna shake the blighter up.." Spike almost smiled, "Anyway, we used to... run together, but I'm sure you know that much."  
  
"Yeah, I heard about your family tree," she answered, "Master makes Darla, Darla makes Angel, Angel makes Drucilla, Drucilla makes you, Drucilla makes Darla again..."  
  
Spike's brows furrowed a bit at that, but she was too busy recanting knowledge to pay him much mind.  
  
"And then..." she slowed down, confused, "I thought there was something else... I guess not. Huh."  
  
"What about Dru and Darla?" he asked a little too loudly, "Again?"  
  
Fred sort of shrugged sheepishly. "It was before I... got here. Wolfram and Hart, not us, the evil version, brought her back from hell to torment Angel."  
  
"From what I remember of those two," Spike stated, "That's not much of a torture. What, she'd sex him till he breaks?"  
  
This time she actually did shrug. "Anyway, she was human, but then they brought Drusilla in and re-vamped her."  
  
"Sweet mother of hell!" Spike exclaimed before he knew what he was doing, "God, I should have staked the bitch when I had the chance..."  
  
"Darla?" Fred confirmed.  
  
"Dru," Spike replied.  
  
After a moment, he began again. "So, what happened to Darla? She still out there somewhere?"  
  
"No, she got staked... by someone."  
  
It was a complicated thing, that news. Much moreso than the first time he had recieved it five years ago. "Well, things were a lot simpler in the old days."  
  
She looked at him expectantly.  
  
"It was just kill this, drink her, torture that. A nice little family, I guess. But even back then, we had our differences. Sort of an alpha male thing," he paused, then finished, "Don't think you'd really understand. Plus, he's Irish."  
  
"Angel's Irish?" Fred grinned, then shook her head and stated, "You said 'back then.'"  
  
"So?"  
  
"So?" she spoke slowly, "That sounds like there's a 'later on' in there."  
  
Spike sighed. "Look. Just... leave it."  
  
Fred's face froze. Spike froze, too. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but he damn well didn't like it.  
  
Gradually, she sounded out the word, "Sunnydale."  
  
"What?"  
  
As if in awe, she looked at him and spoke. "You don't want to talk about Sunnydale, do you? That's why y-"  
  
"Just shut up!" he shouted as he shoved himself off the desk so hard it actually slid backwards. He quickly furled his coat around himself as she scrambled off the awkward seat. "I'm not your friend, alright, 'pardner?' That guy Knox you always make googly eyes at? He's your friend. Stiff upper lip Wesley? He's your friend. I, on the other hand, am not."  
  
She looked shocked and a little angry. Good.  
  
"In fact," he continued, actually getting in her face, "the more important thing to remember, mousey, is that you are not my friend. And if I have my druthers, you never will be."  
  
The words felt like blood in his mouth, and a part of him made immaterial beyond itself stirred at it. He wanted to find more things to throw at her, to pick up the whole desk and smash the window to pieces, to get a stake and...  
  
He turned and walked away, making sure he left through a wall. She looked like she was going to say something, but it was too late.  
  
---  
  
Spike sat at a table and felt bad.  
  
It was only after a waitress said something to him that he realized what he was doing. His arms crossed, his eyes downcast, his brow furrowed... It was his worst fear come to pass.  
  
"I'm becoming him..." he muttered.  
  
"Excuse me?" the waitress asked, obviously confused.  
  
"Oh," he tried to smile, "Sorry. I got... just water."  
  
She nodded quickly and left. Even if he was confined to Los Angeles, at least he could move about in the daylight. It had been over a hundred years since he had seen the sun, and it was about the only perk his new condition lent him. He had taken to sitting in outdoor cafes and leaving glasses of untouched water in his wake. Oddly, the best place to be alone in L.A. was in public.  
  
"Two breakfast burritos, please," a tremolous voice came from behind him, "And a cup of coffee."  
  
Oh god. He cringed, but made himself turn his head anyway. He hoped against it, but he knew his luck. Gradually, his head made the necessary rotation for him to just barely look past the bridge of his nose at...  
  
Oh, God. He knew she would see him, and that would be it. She'd... He had hoped she would avoid speaking to him, too, after what happened, but he knew that was too much to ask. If he knew her at all, which he unfortunately did, she was hiding a lot of pluck and an annoying amount of meddling under those spectacles.  
  
He knew full goddamn well that if she saw him, she would talk to him, out of malice if nothing else.  
  
For several minutes he sat, trying to remain casual as best as possible, but failing miserably. For all his cool-guy affectation, he never was good at nervous. Silently he prayed to whatever would listen for her to have to go to the restroom, so he could dash away unseen.  
  
And then it happened. She got up and headed off into the indoors of the cafe. He rapidly stood and walked quite brusquely through the waitress who was approaching his table. Just when he strode through the low fence dividing the patio from the great outdoors, he froze.  
  
"Spike," she said from right behind him.  
  
"Yes?" he asked slowly, not daring to turn around.  
  
"That poor girl just passed out."  
  
That got him turning. He looked pver and saw it was true. The blanched waitress had been so surprised at her near-ghost experience that she had just keeled right over. Whoops.  
  
"Sorry," he replied, not looking at the conscious woman, and then suddenly shouted, "Hey! You tricked me!"  
  
Without thinking he had looked at her in his accusation, and he could see that smug little imp grin on Fred's face. He wished he were solid so he would have to hold back from hitting something.  
  
"I'm not that nice, lately," she explained, "I wonder why."  
  
He quickly deflated and looked back at the ground. "Whatever. I have to go."  
  
"Where?" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm as he turned away, "Where can you possibly have to go?"  
  
"Away!" he shouted, tugging at his arm to free it, "Let go of me!"  
  
After a moment, they both looked at his arm and stopped moving. Her hand was still around it, barring him from leaving.  
  
"I think I know something about your condition, Spike," she said softly, "And the only way I could grab you is if you wa-"  
  
"Maybe," he interrupted, finally freeing his arm, "Maybe I do. But you people shouldn't have to... Look, we're in public. Everyone's staring. I have to go. We have to go."  
  
"Go where?" she asked again, this time unable to touch him.  
  
"Home." 


	2. Sung

Sitting Out  
  
Two: Sung  
  
"Oh, hey, Spikey," he waved offhandedly as he wooshed by, and then his phone was back to his ear. "What? No way! You tell Mandy we want to see more of her. Yeah. Get it? Of course, she's my little angel. ... No he's fine. Oh. Sorry."  
  
Spike turned around and began to follow Lorne down the hallway. He was waiting impatiently for him to get off the phone, but he thought it was hidden enough.  
  
"What is it, candycheeks?" Lorne demanded with one hand over the phone. Apparently he wasn't hiding it as well as he thought.  
  
"You know Mandy Moore?" Spike asked with wide eyes.  
  
Lorne shrugged and nodded an affirmative. "Why do you care?"  
  
Spike looked offended. "Give me a little credit, mate! I keep abreast of current events, I'll have you know. I just watched 'E!'."  
  
"Uh huh," the demon said into the phone, and then to Spike, "I guess I forgot all you can really do is watch TV all day."  
  
"And it's a good damn thing I learned how to touch the clicker," he confided, "A man can only take so much hockey."  
  
"Okay, bye." And then the phone was away. "I'm with you a hundred percent, there. Sometimes a guy just needs a healthy shot of Gillmore."  
  
"You know, that show's really underra-" Spike caught himself, "In any case, I was just, ah, curious about..."  
  
Lorne smiled sweetly and leaned his head to one side. "Aww, I had no idea you were such a softie."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
The host backed up, hands open in front of him. "Sorry, rebel, didn't mean to imply a cause. Why don't you come into my office and we'll talk about..."  
  
"Pylea," Spike said somewhat loudly, "And all the bone-eating beasts you can kill over there."  
  
Lorne was evidently having trouble refraining from laughing.  
  
---  
  
"Passions?"  
  
Spike shrugged, his hands in his coat pockets. "There's a little TV in a room in the basement."  
  
"So, we're keeping this on the down low, then," Lorne noted.  
  
"Tell anyone, and God help me, I will find a way to take you to hell with me."  
  
Lorne smiled warmly. "Scout's honor. Now... tell me about Mandy."  
  
"I think she's a great actress," Spike confided, leaning over, "And I'll gut anyone who says otherwise."  
  
"I'm sure she'll be touched when you tell her that."  
  
Spike fell through the chair he was leaning on. "What?"  
  
Lorne shrugged and sat back in his chair. "Truth be told, she's quite the little Velma. When she heard there was a vampire ghost here, she just about peed herself. I'm sure she'll plotz when I tell her you want to meet her."  
  
"And this should help iron things out," he mumbled to himself.  
  
"What's that?" Spike asked, too distracted to be listening very carefully.  
  
Lorne grinned placatingly. Spike saw fit to let it slide, this once.  
  
---  
  
"Did you see the look on his face?"  
  
"I can do better than that, honey."  
  
"Yeah, what's that?"  
  
"My cell phone and I had a little kodak moment," Lorne grinned, "Now you can relive the magic whenever you feel blue."  
  
"You know, I think I will," Spike stated with determination, leaning over to look at the cell phone's screen.  
  
On it was Angel's face, full of confusion and more than a little dissapointment at having someone find Spike more interesting than him.  
  
"But I'm the vampire with a souuul," Spike drawled in his best worst Angel voice, "Love me?"  
  
Lorne snickered and put away the phone. "Fun is fun, my little platinum ingot, but don't you think you're a little hard on Angel sometimes?"  
  
"Well, yeah," Spike said without delay, "'S why I do it, iddn'it?"  
  
"First off, that's not a word," Lorne glared, "Second, aren't you supposed to have a soul, too? Wheaties brand champion of good, et cetera? Or at least shredded wheat..."  
  
Spike scoffed very distinctly. "I didn't get a soul crammed down my throat by some higher power. There's not some grand design for me. I went and got the damn thing, and I'll use it as I see bloody fit. He's got his prophecies and his crack commando squads and what all, hasn't he? All I've got is the inability to touch things. When I get the memo that says, 'Dear Spike, you're a champion, play nice, signed, The Powers That Be,' then maybe I'll start takin' it a little more seriously."  
  
"No need to get jealous," Lorne answered darkly.  
  
Spikes eyes widened considerably as his indignancy did the same. "What do I have to be jealous of? Bad hair?"  
  
"Maybe having hair at all, poutygeist. You're stuck and helpless, and seeing all these things around you can't be easy."  
  
Spike glared as hard as he knew how. "No. I don't want to be him. I just..."  
  
Lorne raised an eyebrow to continue.  
  
"Sometimes I think maybe it would be nice to be a champion, after all."  
  
"Then start acting like one," Lorne soothed.  
  
"But then I look at the crap Mr. Forehead has to put up with, and I figure too many cooks spoil the broth."  
  
Lorne rolled his eyes. "Think what you will, tiger trap, but you know that we need all the champions we can get around here, even if all they can add is heart. It worked for the planeteers, didn't it?"  
  
"I am not gonna buddy up with a bleeding monkey," Spike stated emphatically.  
  
Lorne shook his head, smiling. "You really do love TV, don't you?" 


	3. Some

Sitting Out  
  
Three: Some  
  
"I think I'm trying too hard."  
  
"I guess. Don't really know this territory."  
  
Spike wound up for another punch. "Then keep holding the bag. I think I got it this time."  
  
And with that, Spike shot a right straight at the punching bag Gunn was holding, and was somewhat surprised when his fist slid through the bag, but not through Gunn's face.  
  
"Ow!" "Sorry."  
  
"Man," Gunn complained, coming out from behind the bag with his hand on his face, "I don't know how you managed that, but try to not do it again."  
  
"At least I hit something," Spike said to the side.  
  
"Yeah. You pack a lotta punch for a dead people. Too bad you didn't get all solidified a while ago," Gunn smiled, "I could use a little violence every now and then."  
  
Spike socked his head to indicate Gunn should resume his position at the punching bag. "Can't you practice with the fops?"  
  
"Fops?" Gunn grunted as Spike's hand materialized enough to go halfway through the bag.  
  
As he extricated his arm, Spike answered, "Yeah, Wesley and Angel."  
  
Spike could tell from Gunn's voice he was smiling at that. "Yeah, well, Wes ain't really much for sparring lately, or ever at all, and boss-man's too busy sulking up in his office to do much of anything else."  
  
"Brooding," Spike corrected.  
  
"Yeah, brooding. But tell you the truth, I've been a little busy, too."  
  
Spike leaned around the red punching bag to smirk. "Whoa... I know lawyer..." he said with a vapid look on his face.  
  
"You're a dick, you know that?" Gunn deadpanned.  
  
"Not my fault you took the red pill," Spike grinned.  
  
Gunn sort of sneered and looked away. "Fine. You're just lucky I'm above name calling."  
  
"Are not," Spike laughed, "Now hold that thing right, I think I got it this time."  
  
"Man, just for that, I'm gonna keep that great Billy Idol joke to myself."  
  
After another failed punch, Spike shot, "Sorry, heard 'em all. Half from Billy himself."  
  
"You serious?" Gunn asked, then amended, "Probably not. Fine, maybe I'll make Billy Kane jokes."  
  
"Billy who?"  
  
"God! Does nobody play video games around here?" Gunn asked, exasperated.  
  
Spike shrugged. "Not much for pop culture."  
  
This time Gunn stepped around the bag. "Yeah, right. Like I don't hear you and Fred watching Homestar cartoons in her office."  
  
"Hey, that's different."  
  
"How."  
  
"That's underground culture."  
  
Gunn sighed and rolled his eyes. "See, that's what you do. That's why everybody keeps their distance. You always gotta push back, don't you."  
  
"You're one to talk," Spike said, accompanied by a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Hold up," Gunn stated, hands forward, "I know I've got my manly pride thing going, but you gotta know when to give up the act, man. I think maybe we could help each other out, if you were'nt sitting in your basement half the time."  
  
"What do you do in there, anyway?" Gunn asked after a moment.  
  
"Practice throwing knives," Spike said a little too quickly.  
  
"Right. Well, next time you get bored of your knives, and I'm not on a case, I'll show you how to relax a little."  
  
Spike gave him an incredulous look. "I'm pretty much look but don't touch, I hope you know."  
  
"Naw," Gunn sighed, "I mean hangin' out. Taking a break for some GTA or something."  
  
"GTA?"  
  
"Grand Theft Auto?" Gunn asked with his eyes, "It's a game? You steal cars? Commit crimes?"  
  
Spike looked away, contemplating.  
  
"It won't hurt your manly image, I promise," Gunn smiled, "And Angel hates it."  
  
Spike smiled broadly. That would do just fine. "Maybe. Now hold the damn bag already."  
  
As Gunn resumed his position, Spike gave the punching bag a wicked grin and hit it hard enough to elicit a grunt from the man behind it. 


	4. Sawn

[Author's note: HEY HEY HEY! I realize it has been a while, but the muse spell I usually use (Musega) cost too many MP, and I had to settle for the next step down (Musera). So that explains the delay completely. Also, you may notice that the chapters henceforth take place after Angel 5.08 (Destiny), rather than before it. In any case, Blarm.]  
  
Sitting Out  
  
Four: Sawn  
  
"Well, hey there, Headdy Boy, great to see you back again!"  
  
Wesley Wyndham-Pryce sighed to himself. "Home, Sweet Home. What do you want, Spike?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Spike said with a pat and a smile, "Just being friendly, right?"  
  
"Right..." Wesley andswered slowly, "In any event, I have work to do. It seems to have this dirty habit of piling up when you're away."  
  
"Fine, then. I'll let you get to that."  
  
As he was walking away, Wesley felt something in his mind itch. It was a little, niggling irritation that he couldn't quite reach, stuck right in the middle of what had just happened.  
  
"Hey, wait!" Wesley shouted, turning around, "You're solid!"  
  
Spike spun in place, smiling widely, and veritbly bowled Wesley over as he ran to him and grasped his shoulders.  
  
"I know! It's great, idn'it? I mean, I can feel things!"  
  
"How long hav-"  
  
"FEEL!" Spike exclaimed once again.  
  
"Yes, well," Wes interrupted, dislodging himself from the vampire's grip, "I assume from your enthusiasm that this is a... recent development."  
  
"Yeah, just the other day. Same day I kicked that great ponce's ass," Spike said, pausing in thought for a moment, "Hold on, I should write that date down. Celebrate yearly, I think."  
  
Wesley sighed. "Whose ass? What's been going on around here?"  
  
"Oh, right, you've been off," Spike noted, "Okay, let's see... I'm real again, the world got turned out of balance, I went to Nevada and beat Angel to the cup of something unpleasant, and somebody was named Sirt."  
  
"Sirt?"  
  
"Yeah, I thought that was odd, too. I mean, how do you spell that?"  
  
"Wait, back up. What's this about the balance?" Wesley soothed, hands out in front of himself.  
  
Spike thought for a moment. "Well, seems that now I'm a champion and all, I'm in the running for that little Shanshu business."  
  
"Of course..."  
  
"And, of course, that threw the whole bleeding universe for a loop. So this guy, Sirt, that's the one I brought up earlier, tells us to find out who's the chosen cold one we have to go to Death Valley and drink some sodding Mountain Dew."  
  
"Mountain Dew?"  
  
"Oh, right. It was all a big hoax. But, on the other side, a bloody good time was had by all. I got the cup and right kicked Angel's ass in the process."  
  
"But it was a hoax? The contest, that is?"  
  
"Yeah. Sirt, you know the one, he disappeared right after."  
  
"Sirt did."  
  
"Right," Spike replied, "And that's about it. Apart from the eye-bleeding."  
  
"Eye-bleeding? No, wait, what about the universe? How did it fix itself?"  
  
Spike shrugged. "Eve says the senoir partners took care of it. I guess we'll just have to wait for the big announcement."  
  
"What annopuncement?"  
  
With a grin, he finished, "That I'm the champ, Headdy."  
  
Beckoning Spike into his office with a tilt of his head, Wesley continued, "What makes you so sure that you're the champion?"  
  
"Because," Spike answered as he closed the door, "I worked for it."  
  
Wesley stopped what he was doing and stared at Spike for a moment. "What do you mean by that?" He asked slowly.  
  
Much of Spike's humor visibly drained, and he began to speak more evenly. "A year and a half ago, I got my soul back. I fought for it, tooth and nail, because I knew it was what I needed. I knew it was what I wanted. Angel got his jammed in there by a gaggle of angry Romanians. His was a reward for all the awful stuff he did. A curse."  
  
"That's true," Wesley noted, "But I think you may be overlooking a few important facts here."  
  
"Yeah, what's that?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, Wes began, "First is the matter of free will. Or, at least, skewed will. As a soulless vampire, Angel was one of the worst, as I'm sure you know. However, this was due not to the man, but to the beast within him. Or, more accurately, the man's corpse. That Liam died, Spike, just as your William did, and quite frankly, neither of your human predecessors were, or are, responsible for your subsequent actions."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And," Wesley emphasized, "That could have been part of the design. Those gypsies may not have been there by simply blunder, but rather to work the will of the Powers. So even though it was not his choice to become ensouled, it may have still been his destiny."  
  
"So what," Spike frowned, "That's just some get out of evil free card? You get to be the chosen one even though you ate a third of Europe? Doesn't seem very fair for those of us who worked for our redemption."  
  
"Ah, that brings me to my second point. Fate is not well-known for its fairness, Spike. In fact, there's a very real chance that you are, in effect, punished for your rehabilitation."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
Drawing in a sharp breath, Wesley said, "Well, it may be that you will find yourself without the help of the Powers because you don't need it. If I understand your story correctly, and have even a clue about what's going on in your head, it seems as though you have done in a matter of months what took Angel more than a lifetime."  
  
"That's what I said."  
  
"And more remarkably, you sought out your own salvation, even though you were a creature of evil. I realize that there were some unusual circumstances, but I think, perhaps that's the story of your unlife. You and Angel both."  
  
Both men stared blanky for a moment, not looking at one another. After a time, Spike shifted and began to walk toward the door.  
  
"Wait, Spike," Wesley called, "Don't take this the wrong way. I don't think that you aren't the foretold vampire, but it's logically a fifty-fifty at best. What you did may have been contrary to what the Powers were expecting, and if that's the case, I'm afraid that you'll just have to keep finding your own Shanshu."  
  
"Well..." Spike said with a smile, turning around slowly, "When you think about it, I'm still the one who gets to enjoy himself. Guess if it is him, at least I can take a little comfort in that century long curseapalooza he is."  
  
"Perhaps longer," Wesley added cheerfully, "Potentially hundreds more years."  
  
"What do you know," the blond grinned, "the thought really does cheer me up."  
  
Nodding his head, Wesley pulled out a pen and got ready to do some work. "Any time, Spike."  
  
"Thanks, Percy."  
  
Wandering the hall, Spike found himself in less of a bad mood than he had expected, given what he had just been told. Being potentially forsaken by the team he'd switched to wasn't exactly a comforting idea, but there was a little joy to be had in bucking the system.  
  
"A bloody rebel," he sneered, "I don't need gods."  
  
And Spike grinned broadly as he strode into the main lobby.  
  
"I've got me." 


End file.
